Human Traffic
by 43501
Summary: [REVISED 27.09.12] Mello faces a dilemma, and Near leaves him with some interesting memories. Completing his book detailing the Los Angeles BB murder cases, Mello pauses to write about his beguiling encounter with Near. Mello/Near.


I just sighed and rubbed my tired eyes. I'd been working for hours, going over the same fucking material that I reviewed the day before and the day before that too. My eyes were beginning to grow unfocused as soon as I even looked at the page, but in reality, I couldn't afford to stop. I was sick of living in Near's shadow, sick of feeling inferior and worthless, sick of no recognition or respect. If surpassing him meant my own suffering, I'd gladly do it.

I ran a hand through my hair to brush it out of my bleary eyes, bent my head over the book on my lap and tried again. I didn't remember it at the time, but I remember the concept clearly now, six years later:

"If a variable, y, depends on a second variable, u, which in turn depends on a third variable, x, then the rate of change of y with respect to x can be computed as the rate of change of y with respect to u multiplied by the rate of change of u with respect to x."

At the time, though, it was futile. It wouldn't ingrain itself into my brain any more than it had already.

Giving up, I let out a long, exasperated sigh, hurling the book to the other side of the room and stretching out, merely relaxing as I evaluated the options.

The relaxation came to a screeching halt when I realized I'd need to master these formulae by the next day, and the only person who could help me was none other than Near himself, the very boy I was so desperately attempting to succeed against.

I think I must have stood at his God-damned door for a good ten minutes, you know. Just pissing time away, tracing its elaborate patterning with my intent gaze: flourishing swirls of deep brown, wooden tones down to the low-lit glistening door handle, carefully contemplating my decision. For me, asking advice or assistance from Near was tantamount to defeat.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I remember clasping the rounded knob with a heavily sweating hand. As I twisted that door handle, I distinctly recall my stomach following suit. The mere thought of what I was about to do made me sick. Ever eaten curry that's been reheated for the fourth time? Yeah, it was something like that. I had to do it quickly and deal with the feelings and consequences later.

Anyway, I gave the door a forceful push, allowing it to swing open by its own inertia, and instantly blurted my rehearsed sentence in a single breath:

"Hey Near, I need to ask you something important."

Except, I was talking to air. Where he usually sat on the floor to do his work, there were papers and open books arranged in an obscure semi-circle fashion, lacking the Near who normally sat in the middle of the formation, as he liked to be able to view all of his work simultaneously.

"Mello, welcome. Over here."

Caught off guard, I glanced in the general direction of that voice, only to find Near standing at his bedroom window.

He finally turned his head, slow and meaningfully, glancing over me with those round, nubilous eyes, his face stark and expressionless but for the slightest curl of the corner of his lip, acknowledging my presence in a silent greeting.

I carefully stepped over the papers that lay about the floor (I'm sure I only left shoe-prints on a few pages), making my way over to the windowsill of Near's room, leaning upon my elbows as I joined him.

"What… Are you doing?" I asked, genuinely curious as to what could possibly be more interesting than the wonderful world of differential calculus.

"I'm observing." The white-haired boy replied simplistically.

"Observing what, exactly?"

"People. Human traffic."

I suddenly remembered why I hated talking to him. He did that a lot. He'd say something, and unless you'd ask what he meant or requested more detail, he'd leave you hanging. In that regard, small talk with him more resembled an interrogation. And, God, it was a bloody waste of time every time.

" 'Human Traffic'? What do you mean?" I pressed. In hindsight, I'm surprised that I didn't walk out there and then.

"I'm just sitting on some thoughts, Mello. Take a good look out there and tell me what you see."

I looked toward him dubiously. He met my gaze and tilted his head ever slightly, stroking a lock of his hair taught between his fingers before letting it go, allowing it to spring back into it's natural shape.

"Okay… Nothing interesting. There are some kids playing down there, I guess. There's the gate to Wammy's. Beyond that, there's a street. A car passes occasionally. Maybe a person. What's the point?"

"The point is," Near quickly interjected, "It all leads to an interesting thought. The idea that everything is the result of a juncture between the lives of ordinary people. This institution is only possible because of the workmen who built the building, the staff who run the operation, and the orphans that live here. Everything is just an interplay of human interaction – human traffic."

"Whatever…" I said quietly, not at all sure what to make of the scenario.

"It's just the thought that nobody's really alone, even though I think most people feel alone. We think we are. But we aren't. People look after each other."

I didn't respond, but something about what he said caught me off guard. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but there was something about what he said that felt like it was demanding my attention.

"Forgive me. What did Mello need to ask me?"

"Er," I was immediately hit with nausea again, "I need… an explanation. Of chain rule. Er, well, that is if you ca—"

"I'd be more than happy to help." He interrupted gently, walking over to his usual spot and sitting on the floor with a 'plonk'. I followed him there, sitting close to him as he pulled out his version of the notes and begun explaining it to me, apparently confident that I'd follow from the first word.

But I didn't. I'm sure he was trying to explain it, and I'm sure he was actually trying to be helpful, but it was all white noise to me. In one ear, out the other kind of stuff. I found some clever ways to ask him to repeat the same things without appearing as though I hadn't retained a thing from his first explanation, but I was still getting nowhere.

In the end, I think I had been there for more than half an hour. I don't think I've ever felt more defeated and embarrassed in my life, and in a way, dwelling on those thoughts created a mental block for me throughout his explanations.

"Mello…"

"Y-Yeah?"

"Please, be honest with me. Are you getting any of this?" he asked, his features displaying a strange mix of annoyance and concern.

"Yeah. Well, kind of." I sighed. "There are some parts I understand better than others."

"Is it my fault?"

"What? No." His conjecture seemed absurd.

"That's too bad. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help to you, if that's the case." As usual, he was sincere and honest in his statements.

But shit. Packing up all of that pride, and all for what? I didn't understand the primary material any better, and that was at the cost of my own dignity. Again, I had lost to him. It seemed like I could just never win, like the world was constantly conspiring against me.

Sighing heavily, I folded my arms on the floor and buried my face in them. My eyes had all of a sudden started to water heavily, and there was no way in hell I'd let Near see that.

"Mello… Are you alright?"

Obviously I couldn't tell what he looked like from that position, but I was taken aback once again. I could have sworn I heard an undercurrent of concern in his voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just sleepy as hell. That's probably why it's hard for me to concentrate, too."

"If that's the case," he continued, resuming his matter-of-fact tone, "you probably should go to sleep and aim to wake early."

"What are you, my mother?"

"If I were, you'd probably be better off." He said it in the most monotonous, deadpan way, but I was pretty sure he was joking. He wasn't very good at jokes.

Rapidly deteriorating into some emotional wreck, but determined not to let it show, I inhaled sharply and promptly rolled to my right. I had intended to flip and continue our conversation glancing up at him, but apparently he'd inched closer when I buried my face in my arms, because I was practically staring up his nostrils, my head in his lap.

When I caught sight of his eyes boring into my own, I just froze. He calmly blinked down at me expectantly, as though he was anticipating that I'd lash out at him somehow as I sometimes did, but I had become as rigid as a board.

Up until that moment, I never had gotten a decent look at his eyes. But having them floating there above me, staring me down, glaring into the innermost sanctums of my psyche, I was mesmerized by them. His irises were decorated with myriad shades of grey, and somehow, appeared misty and clouded.

Breaking myself from those thoughts, I finally made a move to leave his lap, but he delicately placed his palm flat on my chest, applying only the most miniscule amount of pressure. His touch was feathersoft, and yet at the same time, that gentle force clearly commanded me, as if he were saying 'Don't move yet'.

"What the hell are you doing?" I finally asked.

"Mello, truthfully. I need to ask you something."

"Why do I need to be in your lap for you to ask me?" I retorted, with irritation mounting by the second.

"Mello," he started again, ignoring me completely, "Do you really hate me?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

I said it with such strength and conviction, I felt as though I had pierced him with quicksilver words and my gaze, a gaze that poured over him, burning with a passionate hatred, burning with blood and sinews. He continued staring down at me, unperturbed, expression unchanging. It was rather eerie.

"Of that much, I was aware. Why do you hate me?"

"Seriously Near, what the hell—"

"Why do you hate me?"

"Because I do!" I practically barked. "You undermine all of my efforts. You don't work half as hard as I do, and yet you perform better at everything. And, shit, that's not even the real reason I hate you."

"Then what is?" By this point, his lips had assumed a curious smile. Sicko.

"Because you're a fucking robot, and you're emotionless. I don't sense anything human about you. Nothing at all."

He appeared as though he didn't know how to take this, peeling his eyes away from me for the first time, hand still on my chest, still commanding me to stay in position as he dwelt on the thought.

Finally he spoke, "Well, that's too bad, because I do like you."

I was stunned silent.

"You have no reason to." I said defiantly, after the longest silence. "So prove it."

One second I was engaged in an intense stare-down with him, and the next, before I even had time to process the thought, he had gently stooped to my level, and his mouth was pressed against my own.

I tensed completely. For the most part, I would have appeared to frozen to him, but internally, I was experiencing a kind of a mental train-wreck, as the train of hate and the train of adoration endured a head-on collision in my head, resulting in one beautiful, perplexing mess.

But after the initial shock…

I melted.

I melted into his kiss. With his silken lips, he was slowly sucking me into his white world, a world of absolute stillness and tranquility. For that one moment in time, the slightest hint of a sweet taste from his mouth and the clean scent of his breath wrapped me in a beautiful haze, enveloping my senses. He was glorious, tantalizing: beyond what mere words could touch.

The arms that I had pressed against his chest (as a reflex to push him away, I assume) snaked around him possessively, forcing him in closer to me, pushing his mouth roughly against my own as I devoured him, lips, teeth and tongue in a splendid mash that escalated from an almost angelic kiss into a heated, volcanic pash, infused with pyroclastic passions. Nothing could describe the sheer power and satisfaction I felt when I suddenly seized him by the hair, forcing his head to tilt to allow me greater access as he shuddered and moaned quietly into my throat.

Finally, I let him go, and as we separated, a thin tendril of saliva oozed between us, connecting us lip-to-lip momentarily.

He was breathless and flushed, panting quietly as he resumed staring down at me. I was driven mad at the prospect of seeing him this way, and of knowing that I was the reason for his heat, knowing that I had affected him and stirred him in a way no one had ever done before.

But within mere moments, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and regained his composure, displaying a childish smile, marked with confidence and cockiness.

And that's when I realized I had lost again.

Fucking... bastard.

After that we pretty much didn't say anything and I left without a word, almost tripping over myself, almost dropping my textbooks. I can only wonder how he felt about that.

As I closed the door of my own room behind me, I sighed and dumped my books on the desk beside my bed. Giving up, I flung myself onto the mattress, sprawling out into a vaguely starfish shape as I contemplated how in the hell I was supposed to fall asleep or study after what just happened.

Hang on... When he was blabbering about human traffic, or something, he mentioned how we're never really alone. Was he implying he felt lonely?

* * *

It was a searing, torrid morning. As Mello sat on his bed by the window, scrawling his thoughts on the pages of a worn, leather-bound book, sunlight broke in harshly from between the blinds, casting a remarkable stripy shadow upon the scene. The light illuminated the room so brilliantly that the airborne specks of dust were visible, gleaming and suspended in mid-air. It was so hot and humid that Mello, enduring almost sauna-like conditions, had torn off most of his clothes, mentally cursing the sun as his boxers clung to his figure, damp with sweat.

"I'm so fucking hot." Matt complained from elsewhere in the room.

"I know you are." Mello retorted.

"Ha, funny." Matt replied, not actually laughing at all. "What're you doing?"

The blonde boy sighed softly, idly running his finger along the slats of the blinds, collecting the dust that had settled on them. He was gazing out over the city through the pellucid window, carefully prying two slats apart for a better view, content to watch the Monday morning unfold. Below him, ant-like figures of people would be bustling to and fro. Perhaps some of them were going to work or meeting acquaintances, some would experience heartache today, others joy. The scene played out before his very eyes like cogs in a well-oiled machine, operating like clockwork, beautiful in their precision. And, although he would rather not admit it, Mello wondered plaintively about Near, the niveous boy who had, even if for only a second, dragged him into his white world and made him feel.

A small pillow suddenly hit Mello in the back of the head, immediately breaking him from his reverie. "Hey, you, are you gonna answer me or what?" Matt called out.

"I'm observing. Watching human traffic."

"Huh," replied Matt, "you're a weird one. Unless there's a hot little number walkin' out there somewhere. If there is, you'd better tell me so I can join you."

"Not quite." Mello replied almost defensively. "But if I see someone, I'll let you know."


End file.
